


All That Might Have Been

by sweetfayetanner



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: AU If You Squint, Angst, But mostly angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Mutual Pining, Rare Pairings, Romance, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfayetanner/pseuds/sweetfayetanner
Summary: Maybe Villeneuve would welcome them back someday. Chapeau knows Maria-Eleanor misses it as much as he does. But for now, they’re content here. They’re alive and safe and together here.And not much else matters.
Relationships: Adam's Mother/Chapeau (Disney), Beast's Mother/Chapeau (Disney)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	All That Might Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the ongoing Chapeau secret romance saga!
> 
> My apologies in advance for the angst. You might need a tissue.

Chapeau wakes with the sun, when the rest of the cottage is still asleep. The curtains stir with a warm summer breeze that fills their bedchamber, a gentle scent of wild lavender engulfing his senses. He dresses without a sound, side-stepping the floorboards he knows will creak in protest if he’s not careful. He’s had plenty of practice in the delicate art of going unnoticed, of being silent and still.

And there are scars to mark the occasions in which he wasn’t—the thin, pale pink line just near his temple, for one. Chapeau has a habit of worrying at it, finding the raised skin that’s now healed with a thoughtful swipe of his thumb. The wound feels like it happened a thousand lifetimes ago, and yet there are nights where he can still feel the fresh blood spilling into his eyes.

But that is all behind them now. A memory. Quite a painful one, _oui_ , but one that could be carried away with the heady scent of lavender.

The sun’s first rays tumble across the bed linens and catch her hair like spun gold by the time he’s fully dressed. He doesn’t wake her; they’d both been kept up all night. Chapeau is quick when he presses a light kiss into her hair, the aroma of wild lavender replaced with the fragrance of a rose. She wore roses in her hair, fashioned crowns of white petals for her and Adam so often that he smelled them even when she wasn’t in their bed. It had been impossible to take all of her beloved English white roses with them, but once he’d presented her with the clipping he’d stolen from the castle’s colonnade, she’d thrown her arms around his neck and sobbed.

They’d been so exhausted then. Bone-weary, yet wide awake in the blue early morning light. A two year old Adam sprawled across Maria-Eleanor’s lap, tiny fingers curled into her skirts, fast asleep. Nothing but the French countryside for miles around and a cart of all the belongings they could fit. He’d wanted to calm the worry in her heart, to ease the fear of the uncertain future before them. He’d have done anything to make her and Adam’s bruises disappear, to dry the quiet tears he’d watched fall in the weak moonlight.

Chapeau walks carefully past Adam’s room, where the rose clipping had now blossomed for four summers, the flowers winding their way up the beige stones of their modest cottage to settle beneath his window. The birds have been awake for hours now, their melodies drifting in and out with the breeze. He avoids the one floorboard under the rug in the hall fixed between Adam’s room and the nursery, then heads down the narrow staircase. There’s nothing he can do about the old floors here. Every provocation, however faint, makes them squeak and groan.

Their cottage is charming, albeit small. Golden sun splashes across the papered walls, the mismatched furnishings, the silver candelabras sent in secret from the castle. It’s filled with heirlooms and antiques shipped over from England along with letters penned by Maria-Eleanor’s family once word of their escape reached them. Their comfortable drawing room is still overrun with fine new silks and lace and pastel pink bonnets—gifts from his mother and sisters in Villeneuve, desperately wanting to come visit again. The triplets are nearing adolescence now, each of them with one ear pressed to the village’s gossip. And the village had been wild, overflowing with it in the days following their clandestine departure. But now the girls were eager to venture beyond the borders of the village to dote on their niece. Maybe soon, he supposed, if her tiny ears could withstand their chaos. He missed them every time he watched their cart fade into the horizon.

Maybe Villeneuve would welcome them back someday. Chapeau knows Maria-Eleanor misses it as much as he does. But for now, they’re content here. They’re alive and safe and together _here_.

And not much else matters.

His violin is just where he left it last, propped upright against the side of the stone hearth next to a wayward stack of books. Chapeau hates that he cannot give Maria-Eleanor and Adam the grand library they so miss, their collection cluttering a few meager shelves. And now they’re in every corner of the cottage, teetering on the edges of tables and windowsills. Just the other day, he discovered one of Adam’s favorites nestled under a chair in the dining room, covered in flour fingerprints from a cake-baking adventure.

Chapeau grins at the memory as he pushes the back door open and steps out into the balmy morning air. The scent of lavender presses close, swirling around him, and he breathes deeply to let it fill his lungs. It’s why he and Maria-Eleanor picked this cottage, aside from its remote location. Their small garden slopes downward, opens up into a vast field of lavender, neat rows for miles in either direction. It’s all they can smell at the height of summer.

He remembers how luminous her eyes had been the moment she’d seen it, the day she and Adam ran, spinning, with their arms reaching out to brush the purple flowers with their fingertips. Adam clutching fistfuls to give color to their new home, his giggles ringing across the field. It’s even more beautiful drenched in starlight, he thinks. He remembers the night six months after their escape, he and Maria-Eleanor wrapped in the same quilt, making quiet promises with only the constellations to bear witness. They couldn’t get married; not formally, not yet. But they were as good as.

She’d kissed him and he’d known then more than anything else he’d ever been certain of, that he would never wish to kiss anyone else. And she’d smiled against his lips, whispering her new name. _Madame Maria-Eleanor Chapeau._

The locks on his violin case snap open with the quick pressure of his fingers. Leaving the leather case on the terrace, Chapeau settles at the edge of the lavender field and offers a single, clear note that’s nearly lost to the birdsong. There’s been many nights like that under the cover of starlight, but his mind wanders to the one almost a year ago. Lavender buds clinging to tousled hair, his and Maria-Eleanor’s skin flushed pink, catching bits of the silver from the crescent moon. The wild beat of her heart perfectly in time with his own. _Alive_ , so alive. Afterward, she lay on his chest, marking him with a trail of soft kisses, speaking to him in his native French.

“I love you more than all the stars in the heavens,” she’d whispered. “And even when they go out, and you and I are no longer, I’ll love you still.” She laced her fingers between his, and he untucked his other arm from beneath his head to card his fingers through her damp hair. “My Emile.” Maria-Eleanor lifted her head, brushed her lips against his until he kissed her again, slow and gentle.

 _Forevermore._ A promise. They had meant with all their hearts, to the deepest part of their souls.

“You deserve so much more than I can give you, _mon amour_.”

“This is enough.” She held his gaze with those pale blue eyes, her fingers firmly entwined with his. “It will _always_ be enough, Emile. I’ll be content right here, with you, and Adam, and any children we may be blessed with for the rest of my life. I’ll choose it over a drafty castle and a loveless marriage every time. I never knew love could be like this, and I’ll not want for anything else.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Maria-Eleanor grinned. “Like magic.”

Chapeau follows the tentative notes of a new lullaby; a melody as warm as the sunlight that makes the lavender glow. It’s sweet, light, with joyous peaks and graceful valleys. He thinks Maria-Eleanor will like it, thinks that he’ll buy a new pianoforte for her when they can afford it. He hopes that maybe the song will help their daughter to sleep through the night. Chapeau is so deeply lost in the music, the perfume of lavender dancing through his notes, that he doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

“Papa!” Adam’s shout pierces the still morning. Chapeau’s heart always soars in his chest at the earned title. He is thankful that Adam was young enough when they fled to believe their life before was merely a nightmare that fades upon waking. “Teach me! I want to play. Please?”

The bow hits a dissonant note and Chapeau laughs, lowering the instrument from beneath his chin. When he turns to see Adam standing there, his hair is mussed from sleep, curls flashing gold like his mother’s in the mottled sunlight. He’s dressed but barefoot. Chapeau lowers to a knee to accommodate their height difference.

“Of course I’ll teach you, _mon petit_.” He beckons Adam, who’s rubbing at one eye with a small fist, to join him. “You will make a fine violinist, no?”

Adam nods eagerly, takes the violin and bow that Chapeau offers with more care than he thought a six year old could have possessed. While the sun continues its ascent above the horizon, Chapeau teaches Adam’s hands to hold the violin, to be gentle, to not be afraid of mistakes. And there are _many_ mistakes—scratchy notes plucked by a child’s unsteady fingers, the sweep of a bow that doesn’t bring any music with it. Adam’s eyes are narrowed in determination, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. Chapeau allows him to release all the wrong notes into the soft morning wind until he finds the right one. It takes an hour that’s equal parts frustration and infectious giggling, but finally a single note—clear as the sky above them—echoes over the field.

Adam’s grin is triumphant, beaming, when he locks eyes with Chapeau. “I did it!”

Chapeau ruffles his hair. “You most certainly did. See? All it takes is time, and patience,” he says. “You will get it, I know you will. We’ll practice together. If you like it that much, we’ll see about getting you a violin. You’ll be playing with me and your mother soon enough.”

“I’ll practice every day,” Adam promises, fidgeting on the tips of his toes, bursting with enthusiasm. But his eyes are resolute and serious. “I promise!”

He lets Adam settle the instrument and its bow into the plush velvet case, lets him snap the locks shut. It’s only then that he hears the soft cooing sound from the doorway. He and Adam glance up to see Maria-Eleanor there under a dark swath of shade with pink bundle in her arms. Chapeau barely notices the bit of parchment fluttering from between her fingers; he’s too transfixed by the sight of her windswept hair gathered in a braid at her shoulder and the white rose, of their daughter’s tiny hands and light brown curls.

Chapeau smiles. “Did we wake you?”

“No,” she laughs, ducking her head toward their daughter’s roving hands. “I believe your daughter is entirely to blame. She has an impressive set of lungs.”

“She’ll be a singer, then.” He leans forward to kiss his wife, then the top of their daughter’s head. “Like her mother.”

Maria-Eleanor’s head tilts to one side, thoughtful. “Perhaps she will.” When Adam finally wanders over, he’s all bright smiles, tugging at his mother’s skirts. “And _you_ , my dear. Was that you I heard on the violin?”

Adam nods. “Papa says he’ll teach me.”

She exchanges a look with him over the top of their son’s head, and Chapeau doesn’t miss the slight tremble in her bottom lip. Sighing, she fixes him with a grin, the kind that keeps the unshed tears from spilling over. Adam gazes up at her, big blue eyes flittering from his mother’s sun-kissed face to his baby sister.

“Of course he will, my love,” she agrees. “Papa is a wonderful teacher.”

Once the squirming bundle in his wife’s arms begins to whine, Chapeau holds out his arms to take her, cradling their daughter against his chest. She smells of roses, too, and soft baby skin, her cheeks rosy like a cherub’s. Like Adam’s were when he was a newborn, Chapeau recalls. He thinks she’ll have her mother’s eyes. They are enchanted by the sparse clouds that drift overhead, and by every movement he makes.

“A new parcel arrived for her,” Maria-Eleanor tells him, breaking the wax seal with the edge of her thumbnail. “From Monsieur Cuisinier. We’ll have to see what’s in it after breakfast.”

“And the letter?”

“From her godparents.” There’s a crooked grin at the side of her mouth as she scans the piece of neatly folded parchment paper. For a second, he watches her brow furrow, and then it’s gone.

“What is it, _mon amour_?”

“Lumière says that Francois is in ill health,” she says with a hint of breathless relief. “Though he cautions that none of the staff are hopeful it will come to anything and—well, words that I will not repeat in front of the children. I’ll let you read it for yourself later.” Chapeau laughs.

“He and Plumette are arranging to visit sometime in the next few weeks if they can manage to sneak away. Lumière says that your letters aren’t enough, and they wish to see their goddaughter’s radiant beauty for themselves, in person. They can’t wait to finally meet her, and they both miss Adam dearly.” Maria-Eleanor rests a hand in Adam’s hair, leans down to kiss his cheek after he brightens at the mention of his name.

“It will be good to have them here again,” Chapeau agrees. “I miss them so.”

The castle’s staff—their friends; _non_ , their _family_ —had risked their livelihoods to help the three of them flee. The moment Francois had raised his hand to Adam, had left a path of bruises across Maria-Eleanor’s face, Chapeau had decided to leave. It had been foolish; a plan hatched from heartache and lovesickness and stubborn hope, with no sense of reason whatsoever. They’d waited until Francois departed the castle to Versailles on business, and Maria-Eleanor had feigned illness to remain behind. With Adam in tow, she’d stolen away into the night, accompanied by his own mother. Chapeau met the two of them days later to try and avoid the worst of the rumors that would circulate. Francois had been none the wiser until his return, and ever since, the castle had carried a burden. Scandal and disgrace and gossip that took no time in reaching the village, the French court. Chapeau harbored the guilt of their sacrifice, awaiting the day when the rest of it would crumble beneath their feet.

“As do I.” She folds up the letter, slides it carefully into the pocket of her skirt to dodge the undercurrent of melancholy that flows between them. “Perhaps there will be a world someday soon where we won’t have to meet in secret. But until that time comes, I suppose we should take care to have enough spirits to accommodate such a visit.”

“Knowing Lumière and Plumette, I assure you they will not come empty-handed.”

Maria-Eleanor laughs, melodic as the birdsong. “Ah, yes, well…I suppose you’re right.”

She holds out her hand for Adam to take. “Let’s all eat breakfast, then. And _you_ ,” she pokes the end of Adam’s nose with her finger, “can open your sister’s gift, and we’ll take a trip to the market. How does that sound?”

Chapeau turns as their voices fade inside the doorway, looking out across the fields of wild lavender nestled in their orderly rows, swaying under the breeze. His daughter’s cooing draws his attention back to her; to her wide, endless eyes and tiny fists grabbing for him. _Alive_ , he thinks. _Safe_. He lets her latch onto one of his fingers, stares at her as if he’s afraid he’ll forget her face, her scent. This time, there hadn’t been a marriage-shattering discovery to hide, no bloodstained sheets in the night, no devastating loss they couldn’t mourn properly. Her birth had been wondrous.

“Are you coming, my loves?”

Her voice sounds farther away than it ought to, and he clings to it with an increasing desperation.

 _In a moment_ , he wants to tell her. _Only one moment more…_

_“…Chapeau…”_

_“…Chapeau.”_

“Chapeau?” The voice shatters him, and he realizes he’s been staring for far too long. “Emile, my friend, are you quite all right?”

Chapeau blinks at last, swiping a hand across his eyes. In an instant, the vision before him has vanished and his hands are distressingly empty, his body standing idle in a corridor of the castle he’s served for half his life. As his hands fall slowly to his sides, fingers curling at nothing but air, he exhales one trembling breath. Not all of it had been fiction—some truth had bled into the fading dream, some memories had given life to his fanciful imaginings.

Another life. Everything it might’ve been. _Should’ve_ been.

He knew better than to dream. It never eased the heartache, it only made it more profound.

“Emile?”

The voice is Adam’s, he realizes. Far from the boy with sunshine curls he imagines as his own son, but thankfully, a man once more. A man whose heart is as loving and kind as his mother’s was. A man who had found his way back to them.

Chapeau realizes he’s still staring, clears his throat, and dusts some lint from his black silk breeches.

“ _Oui_ ,” he says finally. “I—I’m fine.”

“It’s beautiful.” Adam’s voice is quiet, reverent. “I often find myself stopping to admire it when I can’t sleep at night. I think maybe it helps, or at least I would like to believe it does.”

“Maurice does fine work,” Chapeau says. “It’s…good to see her watching over the castle once more.”

Belle’s father had painted Maria-Eleanor’s portrait, near identical to the one that had been scored by beastly claws. This one was grand, without the shadow of Francois to poison it. Just the lady of the castle in her rightful place, amongst her beloved white roses. Chapeau often lingered near it as Adam did, reflecting, letting his dreams run away from him, and wondering if she listened to the words he would whisper in the dark just for her, wherever she was.

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

Chapeau looks at Adam with all the caution of a man who’s spent years guarding a secret. It takes a long moment for him to answer, and when he does, he cannot bear to look at the boy.

“Of course I did—we all did. The whole castle loved your mother.”

“Come now. The time of keeping secrets has passed. You no longer have to hide in this castle.” When Chapeau glances up, Adam’s eyes are narrowed, but soft. “I may have been slow to realize it all, but I understand now.”

He exhales a shaky breath, and with it, he feels a tear slide down his cheek. “I did,” he whispers. “I still do. With all of my heart, I love her.”

Without a word, Adam closes the distance between, pulling Chapeau into a tight embrace. Chapeau holds onto the boy—he’ll always see him as a boy, _his_ boy, no matter how much time passes—and it’s all he can do not to collapse.

“Thank you,” Adam whispers back, tearful. “Thank you, Emile. I’m glad that she had you there beside her. As I am glad to have you here now.”

Once the last of his weeping has subsided, Chapeau releases Adam to collect himself, to catch the tears that have rolled down his chin.

“She must have loved you dearly.”

All Chapeau can do at first is nod. He sniffles, wiping at his cheek with his sleeve. “I miss her. Not a day passes where I do not think of her.”

Adam wraps an arm around his shoulders, both of their gazes drawn to the portrait, to their dear lady with the white roses tucked into her hair.

“We shall not forget her,” Adam assures. “I promise you.” 

_Forevermore,_ Chapeau promises.


End file.
